


London Sunset

by danyellz (dildolls)



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Fingering, Fluff, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Sunsets, inspired by tfln, on tumblr, or well, texts from the tailors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dildolls/pseuds/danyellz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy knows that, despite getting a fairy godfather in Harry, and a Cinderella story in Kingsman, his life isn't really a fairytale. He doesn't get that stupidly happy ending with someone who loves him for who he really is. Yeah, he and Harry are sleeping together, but that's it. It's just sex. And Eggsy's happy, okay? He doesn't need more than what he's got. </p>
<p>Or, at least he'll keep telling himself that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Sunset

Eggsy Unwin is not a damsel, okay. He just isn’t. He doesn’t really get all that romantic shit. I mean, yeah, the movies make it look fantastic, and he really loves all those sappy romantic musicals. But he’s a gentleman spy, and he gets that life ain’t really a fucking fairytale.

Well, some people would argue that his magical get out of jail free medal and fairy godfather in bespoke suits would make his life a bit of a fairytale, but that’s not really the whole story. Fairytale romances don’t start with handjobs in supply closets, with men twice his age, who lie and murder people for a living. And that’s even assuming Fairytale romances exist. Eggsy’s young, he gets that, but he’s seen enough relationships around the estates to know what real love is like. Ignoring the human pile of garbage that was his step-father for a majority of his life, he’s seen what constitutes a healthy relationship outside the telly. He gets that miracles can happen, and sometimes the person you’re in love with even wants to be with you, but it ain’t never gonna be a fucking fairytale.

So when Harry Hart, who he’s been shagging on the down low for a little over a month now, invites him over to his one evening, Eggsy knows exactly what to expect. They’re gonna have a quick drink, under some pretense of being polite or whatever, then they’re gonna barely make it up stairs before tearing each other’s clothes off and having loud, filthy sex. Afterwards, maybe Eggsy will spend the night, but he’s hesitant to push any boundaries just yet. Things are new, and fragile. Sometimes, Eggsy feels a lot like the butterflies in Harry’s bathroom. Sure Harry likes them well enough, and even Eggsy thinks they have beautiful wings. But a butterfly’s wings are so fragile. You pin them where they are, make sure they stay looking pretty, and then you leave them in their glass cases until you want to look at them again.

So, when he arrives at Harry’s, precisely on time, he’s a bit shocked to find Harry answering the door in an apron.

“You’re early,” is the first thing Harry says. His voice is deadpan, and his face betrays nothing, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that suggests panic.

Eggsy doesn’t mean to, but he giggles. Just a little. Harry’s knuckles go a bit white. “Nah, bruv. I’m on time. You’re just running behind. Again.” Harry relaxes, minutely, but the new position looks a little … defeated? “S’alrigh’ bruv. A gentleman’s never late, right? Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to,” Eggsy says, winking.

That, finally, gets a real smile on Harry’s face. “Well, I suppose I should … let you pass.” Harry says, a cheeky smile on his face as he steps aside to let Eggsy into the house. Eggsy laughs as he steps in, shrugging off his coat. “Here, let me,” Harry says, sliding his hands up Eggsy’s arms to wrap around the lapels and help him take it off.

“Thanks, Harry.” He starts toeing off his shoes next, ignoring Harry’s frown at the possibility of him scuffing his oxfords.

“Those are calfskin leather, Eggsy. Do be a bit more careful.” Eggsy starts to say something, but before he can utter a single syllable, Harry is reaching for the buttons on his suit jacket.

“Harry, if you think this is going anywhere, you’re gonna have to take off that apron. Does wonders for your shoulders, yeah, but it’s a bit in the way,” Eggsy says, not stopping Harry from undoing the buttons on the jacket, but sliding his own hand down the apron, palming Harry through the layers of fabric. Harry smiles, but moves out of Eggsy’s reach before stepping behind him and taking off his jacket.

“As tempting as you are, Eggsy, I’m afraid that will have to wait,” he says, hanging the jacket up right next to the thick wool coat. “Dinner is nearly ready, and I’ve been cooking for far too long this afternoon just to let it burn.” Harry’s walking into the dining room on the way to the kitchen already, and doesn’t see the look on Eggsy’s face. To be fair, he’s not sure how he would describe it.

“Dinner?” is all he manages to ask. His voice sounds a bit awed; like a schoolboy’s. He quickly schools his features into a smirk. Whatever they’ve got going, yeah, it don’t need him mooning over everything Harry does. “And here I thought we was jus’ having drinks.”

Harry briefly looks over his shoulder, standing at the stove. It’s achingly familiar of that morning before the final test. Before Kentucky. Before things became different. “Eggsy, you’ve already showed a blatant lack of care in attending your oxfords. Don’t do my liquor cabinet the same disservice. There is no such thing as ‘just drinks’ in this house.” There’s a sternness to his tone, but the set of his shoulders suggests a joke. He’s seen Harry get really angry. This isn’t that by a long shot.

“Yes, Harry,” he says, and walks to the drinks cart pushed up against the wall in the dining room. He pours himself a drink. It’s in a decanter, and Harry said the foreign name so quickly, Eggsy has no idea what it is. But it’s what Harry recommended to him on one of his first evenings back in the flat after Kentucky, and Eggsy was surprised to learn he does actually like it. He leans through the serving window nearest the stove, blatantly checking Harry out while he cooks.

Time passes, how much he isn’t sure. He sips at his drink, savoring it, and enjoying the delicious smell coming from the stove. It’s a comfortable sort of silence, one Eggsy is content with, but he finds he is curious about something.

“Harry?” Eggsy asks, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger.

“Hmm?” Harry does a sort of half turn over his shoulder, acknowledging Eggsy, but concentrating on stirring whatever it is he’s cooking.

“Why’d you invite me over so early. I mean, if you was s’posed to be finished when I got here, and you invited me over for four o’clock? That’s a bit early for dinner, innit?” He takes another small sip, watching as the heat from the stove causes the hair at Harry’s nape to curl just the slightest bit.

Harry says nothing, only gives Eggsy a knowing smirk over his shoulder before turning back to the stove. Eggsy chuckles. Harry’s planned something. It could be dangerous, might be a continuation of his mentorship in spy training. Would make more sense than this dinner being a date. Whatever Harry and Eggsy are doing, he’s pretty fucking sure it ain’t dating. Harry would make one hell of a prince charming, and Eggsy’s had his own little Cinderella story, but he ain’t never expected more from life than he knew he was worth. One miracle already seems far too much for someone like him.

Eggsy briefly considers downing the last of his drink, going for another glass. But if this is more training, it’d probably be best to limit his drinking.

Harry interrupts his debate with the half empty glass by asking him to have a seat. Eggsy does, sitting down in the chair in front of the drinks cart.

“Sure you don’t need any help?” he asks, watching as Harry pulls a steaming dish out of the oven.

“Don’t be absurd, Eggsy,” Harry says. Eggsy can’t really see what he’s doing, since he’s blocking the view with his body, but the smells coming from the kitchen are fucking heavenly. “I didn’t invite you for dinner so that you could serve me.” He turns around then, with a fucking huge platter covered by a silver dome.

Eggsy doesn’t say anything. Wouldn’t know what to say. It all feels a little too nice. Nobody invites him over, then insists on serving him. Serving him from a fucking covered dish, nonetheless.

Harry sits the dish down in the center of the table, lifting the silver cover and unleashing a puff of steam. 

“What the hell is that?” Eggsy asks, leaning forward slightly and inhaling a deep breath.

“Beef Wellington,” Harry says, and if Eggsy didn’t know any better, he’d think Harry sounded embarrassed. “Is that alright?”

“If it tastes half as good as it fuckin’ smells, it’ll be way more than alright!” Eggsy takes the moment to shake out his napkin and place it in his lap. Because Harry is standing behind him, fixing his own drink, Eggsy doesn’t see the relieved slump of his shoulders, or the fond smile Harry gives him over his shoulder. “Where did you learn to cook like this? It weren’t part of the Kingsman training Rox an’ I went through.”

Harry lets out a loud guffaw. “You think Merlin knows a thing about cooking? Did you know, he set fire to his kitchen trying to microwave an eggroll?” He laughs again, sitting down at the head of the table. Eggsy nearly jolts when Harry’s calf presses against his own. “And that was only the most recent accident of his. No, Kingsman teaches it’s knights many useful skills, but cooking has never been one of them. I learned to cook from my mother. This was one of my favorites of hers. I thought you might enjoy it.” He takes a sip from his drink as he finishes speaking, smiling at Eggsy over the rim of the glass.

Eggsy feels himself relax. Harry Hart is a cold-blooded killer with the warmest smile he’s ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. He presses his own leg more firmly against Harry’s and brings the other calf up to trap him there. There’s a small, quiet moment, where neither moves, and Eggsy, who can feel himself smiling like a lovesick fool, stares at his plate.

The moment shatters when Harry leans forward, taking one of the slices off of the platter and carefully placing it on Eggsy’s plate. Eggsy watches as he loads up first Eggsy’s, then his own plate with beef wrapped in pastry and drizzled with sauce and the potatoes and mushrooms as well.

Throughout dinner, Eggsy keeps his manners impeccable, his senses alert, and Harry’s leg trapped between his own. But Harry never mentions work. Eggsy does, once or twice, but only in passing. Harry seems more interested in Daisy’s most recent growth spurt than in the organizations recent efforts to dismantle a ring of assassins they traced back to Washington.

The food, which was just as delicious as it smelled, is finished rather quickly. Harry, for all his manners and elegance, can be a very messy eater. Never in public, of course, but at home, when he’s no longer Arthur, when he’s Harry, he lets the veneer slip. Eggsy, watching Harry finish his meal at a much quicker pace, pushes his own plate away when Harry does. He knows there’s plenty of food left, and, as delicious as it is, it will be there tomorrow. At the moment, he’s curious as to what Harry has planned.

“Go ahead to the sitting room, I’ll be there in a moment,” Harry tells him, standing up with both of their plates in his hands.

“Nah, I’ll help you wash up, yeah? Since you wouldn’t let me help earlier, it’s only fair.” He stands up, reaching for the platter.

“Nonsense,” Harry says. He takes the platter out of Eggsy’s hands, setting it down on the serving window counter and turning back towards Eggsy. “You are a guest in my home for the evening. If you really feel the need, you may invite me over to your home for dinner and then refuse to let my help, but tonight, you will not lift a finger. Now, go have a seat. I’ll be only a moment, and then you may finish telling me about Daisy’s learning to read.”

Before he knows what’s happened, Harry has manhandled him into the overstuffed armchair in the sitting room, put a drink in his hand, and exited with as much grace as ever.

Bewildered and bemused, Eggsy takes his phone out of his pocket. He’s halfway through his twitter notifications when Harry strides back into the room, sans apron. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and he’s completely discarded his tie. He looks comfortable, relaxed. Something within Eggsy melts at the purely domestic feeling he gets at the picture.

Without breaking his stride, Harry invades Eggsy’s space, neatly plucking his highball and cell phone out of his grasp and setting them on the antique side table. He pushes Eggsy’s arms into the armrests of the chair, leaning down slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Eggsy’s, as he gently presses their lips together. It’s deliberate, controlling, and sexy as hell. The air in his lungs escapes in a breathy sigh as he lets his eyes fall closed. 

Harry pulls back, his hands still wrapped around Eggsy’s forearms. Eggsy can feel his hot breath on his face, and it takes him a moment to open his eyes. When he does, he is not prepared for the wave of lust that shoots through his body at the pure predatory need on Harry’s face. 

“Darling,” he growls, voice dangerously quiet, “would you care to take this upstairs?” Eggsy jolts, ready to run up the stairs himself. But Harry’s hands tighten around him, his grip like iron. Instead, he nods, keeping his eyes on Harry’s. 

He smiles, all warmth and fondness, and something Eggsy doesn’t know well enough to name. Between one blink and the next, he’s in Harry’s arms, bridal style, his hands clasping desperately behind Harry’s neck. He doesn’t have the breath to let out the surprised squawk in his throat. 

He can feel himself turning bright red, so he hides his face in Harry’s neck. An idea occurs to him, and he bites at the side of Harry’s throat, nothing more than a gentle nip. Harry’s arms tighten, and Eggsy smirks, sucking at the faint mark. 

“Eggsy, if I wake up tomorrow with a love bite above my suit collar, there will be hell to pay.” Harry’s voice is rough, low, a growl he can feel reverberating through his whole body as it’s pressed to Harry’s chest. 

“And what about a mark below the collar. Around yer collar bones? Hips? Thighs? Those awright then?” He asks, a cheeky smile pressed to Harry’s throat so he can feel it.

Harry hums, sounding as if he’s actually thinking about it. He says nothing, however, and Eggsy contents himself with pressing gentle, open mouthed kisses all along Harry’s neck. Nothing to leave a mark, but a few filthy enough to get Harry to gasp.

He feels it when they reach the bedroom. Harry stops to kick the door closed behind them. Eggsy’s impressed with how Harry managed to carry him up the stairs without breaking a sweat. Then again, it is Harry. Eggsy isn’t sure the man possess sweat glands.

Harry pauses only a second before he’s moving again, and then he bends. He lays Eggsy gently down on the bed. Eggsy holds on to him, though, still kissing at his neck. Harry only pries his hands gently away from behind his neck, pulling away gently. Eggsy’s eyes are closed. He’s trying to come back to himself. After a moment, he opens his eyes. Harry’s still leaning over him, and he smiles down at Eggsy, that same unfamiliar look in his eyes, but stronger this time. 

Eggsy bites his lip. His whole body feels hot, like a live wire. His skin is crackling, aching for Harry to touch him. Instead his arms are on either side of Eggsy, too far. He looks over to where one of his arms is resting just beside his own. 

But the bed isn’t the usual unmade mess Harry often leaves it in. Instead, it’s pristine, with an excess of pillows, and smelling of fresh laundry and roses. Which makes sense, as the entire bed is covered in rose petals.

Eggsy feel his eyes widen. He goes from staring blankly at the carefully made bed, to the two or three small candles placed on the nightstand, to looking in wonder at Harry. 

And he thinks, maybe, that look he doesn’t recognize, might just be love. He’s surging up then, placing a gentle hand on either side of Harry’s face, and kissing him. It’s not gentle, but not rough. It’s passionate, and maybe a little desperate. He needs Harry to understand what he can’t put into words. Because what if he’s wrong? Eggsy knows what it looks like when it’s Daisy or his mum, or even Roxy. But this is different. Because Eggsy never expected it. He never thought he could have this. It’s too much. The universe doesn’t give this much happiness, and if it does, it never lasts. He’s already taken too much. He doesn’t know how to deal with this much happiness. And so the only logical thing to do, is expect it to be taken away. To wait for the other shoe to drop. Life isn’t this good. 

He breaks away from Harry’s lips, gasping, desperate for air, for validation, for answers. His eyes are closed, his chest is heaving, and he has the man of his dreams right in front of him, face between his palms. It’s quiet, and Eggsy’s mind is racing.

“I love you.”

His brain comes to a screeching halt as the words, barely audible in the dying afternoon light, are whispered in a rush of breath over the skin of his parted lips. His brain is still offline when he answers.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” A pause. A desperate inhale. “I love you, too.”

And then they’re kissing. It’s not like the kiss just moments ago. This is desperate, aching, painful. This is teeth catching on swollen lips, hands grasping desperately at each other. This is love, and the painful hope that it isn’t in vain.

Clothes come off. He doesn’t pay too much attention, other than making sure nothing gets ruined. He’d never hear the end of it, otherwise. He’s acutely aware of the press of their naked bodies, however. He can feel Harry’s gun-calloused hands as they slide up his torso, his thumbs digging into his nipples roughly, making Eggsy gasp brokenly into Harry’s mouth. 

Harry pulls away after that, breaking the kiss, and Eggsy surges after him, trying to keep them connected. To not feel like he’s alone. Harry pushes him away, panting roughly. 

“On your stomach. Face the balcony.” He’s still breathless. Eggsy pauses, not quite understanding. “Please,” is all Harry says, but it’s enough.

Eggsy turns over, sprawling across the wide bed. He tucks his knees up underneath himself, spreading his legs wide. They hang off the edge of the bed otherwise, and this has the added bonus of putting himself on display.

He hears the sharp intake of breath that means Harry’s watching him, and he smiles to himself. As much as Harry likes to pretend he’s a gentleman, Eggsy knows he’s really quite the perv. Harry takes his time, finding lube, or something, and Eggsy gets tired of looking at the bedspread. He raises his head to look out the glass balcony doors, and gasps. 

The doors face the west, something he knew, but he hadn’t realized what that meant. The entire sky seems to be on fire. The setting sun has thrown bright orange and golden hues across the western sky, and around the edges, before it fades back into that pale blue, it’s gone the lightest shade of pink. It’s stunning, and Eggsy gapes. 

“This why you had us eatin’ so early?” He asks, not taking his eyes off of the sunset. 

“I thought it would be romantic,” is Harry’s nonchalant reply. A drawer slides closed behind him.

Eggsy says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. Trying to think about it too much makes it into a joke. Fucking like rabbits doggy style while watching the sunset? It sounds fucking hilarious. But the truth is, it is romantic. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for Eggsy. The amount of forethought that had to go into everything. From making one of Harry’s favorite meals simply because it’s something he wanted to share with Eggsy, to checking what time the sun would set so that they could still eat before hand, to actually making the bed and decorating it with flower petals. It’s so sweet, and Eggsy’s chest hurts. There’s a tightness, like he’s about to cry. But that would be stupid. It’s Harry, and sex with Harry, and those are two things Eggsy would never be sad about. 

He feels the bed dip behind him. He still doesn’t look. One of Harry’s arms wraps itself around his waist, pulling him back as Harry drapes himself over Eggsy’s back. A finger, wet with lube, but warm, presses against his hole. He sighs into the contact. 

Harry presses the first finger in gently, just barely dipping in before easing up on the pressure. It’s gentle. Eggsy rocks his hips back for more. He isn’t used to such a slow pace. A warm, wet smile is pressed into the nape of his neck. Every breath from Harry is pressed into his skin, and it makes Eggsy want more. He wants less even, controlled breathing. He wants ragged, desperate, gasping breaths, with little grunts and growls. 

But with Harry draped over him the way he is, Eggsy can’t move his hips back for more. He’s stuck, with Harry gently working his hole. He does that for a while, pressing in in in, then pulling back out out out, driving Eggsy mad with want. It’s just not enough. He tries to gather enough air in his lungs to say as much, but every time he gets close, Harry crooks that finger just right, and the breath leaves him in a desperate little whimper. 

After what feels like an eternity, one finger becomes two, but Harry keeps that maddening slow pace. On one especially devastating crook of Harry’s fingers against his prostate, Eggsy thinks he actually feels his brain melt. He cries out, pushing his hips further into Harry. Harry, the bastard, sinks his teeth into Eggsy’s neck, massaging the nerves in tight little circles with the pads of his fingers. His mouth drops open, desperate little pants and whines and all manner of embarrassing noises leaving him as he grapples desperately with his sanity. Or what little of it remains. He knows Harry must be working one hell of a mark into his neck, and, though he’ll complain about it later, he actually loves having such a visual reminder of Harry’s attraction to him.

He’s losing it, he knows he is, making these desperate little whimpers and groans. He’s going to come if Harry keeps it up. His thighs are trembling, his hips rocking of their own volition, and there’s a faint buzzing in his head that signals a beautifully mind numbing orgasm is on the horizon. 

And then Harry stills his fingers, slowly withdraws them completely, and Eggsy actually screams his displeasure. Harry detaches himself from his neck with a slurping noise, pulls back just enough to probably admire the mess he’s made of Eggsy. With a pitiful little whine, Eggsy himself slumps down into the mattress, staring out the window at the sunset. There’s more pink, for sure, and the lightest hint of purple edging in. Probably resembles the mark on his neck. 

He tries to draw some much needed air into his lungs, recover from the almost orgasm Harry’s jerked away from him. Now that he’s put some distance between them, he can feel how his entire body is covered in sweat. It’s dripping from his hairline, across his shoulder blades, in the backs of his knees. He can feel where it’s stuck his fringe to his forehead, and the way it beads on his upper lip. He’s a mess, and he’s only had two fingers. 

Harry comes back then, that same arm drawing him back up against his own sweaty chest, those same two fingers slick with more lube. They press in, less slow and steady, and much more demanding. Harry’s done teasing him, he hopes. Has moved on to stretching him with purpose. A third finger is quickly added, and Eggsy relishes the familiar stretch. 

It doesn’t take long, before Harry is pulling all three fingers free and lining his cock up at Eggsy’s hole. He pushes forward slowly, giving Eggsy time to adjust. He works himself in with the smallest thrusts. If it weren’t for the arm holding him in place, Eggsy would have already pushed back, just taking what he wants from Harry. As it is, he’s stuck, panting, and staring as the sky turns violet. 

When Harry finally bottoms out, Eggsy wants to cheer. He probably would if he could get enough breath. He feels full, stretched, and excited for a thorough fucking. But Harry doesn’t start snapping his hips like usual. He moves slowly, drawing nearly all the way out before sliding back. He’s still moving with force, and Eggsy still feels every inch of Harry pressing against him in all the ways that make him melt, but it isn’t as hurried. Every slow rock of Harry’s hips has Eggsy clinging desperately to the arm around his waist, reaching behind him to grasp at the back of Harry’s head. He grabs a fistful of hair that’s just starting to curl and tries to turn his head so that he can kiss Harry. 

It’s difficult, but he’s a current spy and ex-gymnast. He’s done worse, for far less pleasing results. And when Harry does kiss him, it’s wonderful. It’s sloppy. Mostly they just pant and gasp into each other’s open mouths, occasionally brushing their tongues together or nipping at each other’s lips. It’s the least controlled he’s ever felt Harry, and it makes something warm uncurl in his stomach. It feels like good whiskey, and he’s sure it’s twice as deadly.

Harry breaks their kiss, pulls away and nods his head toward the window. Eggsy looks up, and he’s breathless with the sight of the golden lilac sky before him. Harry’s hips are pressed flush against his own, before he does the dirtiest grind into Eggsy’s prostate. Eggsy’s knees feel like jello, and he falls back against Harry’s chest. He hasn’t lost his grip on Harry’s hair, and he thinks he feels his fist tighten the slightest bit before going slack. He’s putty in Harry’s arms, and Harry doesn’t let up. He pulls back the slightest bit before rocking his hips forward and using the arm not holding Eggsy up to flush their hips together as tight as possible. He twists his hips viciously, rubbing the head of his cock right against Eggsy’s prostate, still sensitive from the earlier torment, and then pulling away to start the move over again.

The arm around Eggsy’s waist, still holding him tight, travels up his torso to brush a thumb against Eggsy’s nipple. It’s too much. Eggsy’s still staring at the sunset, tears of overstimulation making his vision blur, and that brush against his nipple sends him barreling over the edge, screaming Harry’s name. His eyes slam shut, he starts to fall forward before Harry’s arm tightens to keep him plastered against his chest, and the hand on his hip moves to stroke him, drawing his orgasm out as his hips keep rocking against his sweet spot. 

When he comes down, tears trailing down his face, limbs turned to jelly, and Harry still holding him like he never wants to let go, he wonders, briefly, how he got so fucking lucky. 

And then Harry lays him gently down on the bed, his knees still tucked up under his hips, his legs spread, and a bunch of cum-covered flower petals sticking themselves to his chest, before thrusting his hips viciously. Eggsy cries out, squirms, tries to angle his hips so it’s not such a brutal assault against his oversensitive prostate. But Harry just places a hand between his shoulder blades, and Eggsy melts into the soft mattress. Harry fucks him like a man possessed. This is familiar, how they usually have sex. It throws the slow, gentle sex they just had into sharp contrast. If this is how Harry usually fucks, then that makes whatever just happened… different. And Eggsy would worry about why it was different, except, in this position, Harry keeps slamming into his prostate. His poor cock’s already getting hard again. He’s never gotten so hard so quickly after an orgasm in his life, and he thinks he might be babbling, but he’s sunk his teeth into the sheets, so he doesn’t worry about what he might be trying to say. 

He’s hurdling toward a second orgasm, quickly. His voice is rising in pitch and volume, and Harry is still going strong. If anything, he speeds up, his hand pressing Eggsy down even harder, as if trying to keep him from getting away. Eggsy isn’t trying to escape, however. He’s so close to another orgasm, and the way Harry’s got him pinned feels safe. 

Harry freezes before Eggsy comes, though. He slams himself into Eggsy, hard, and he stills, shaking the barest amount. He’s gasping harshly, through what sounds like gritted teeth, before he lets out a little growl which sounds suspiciously like “Eggsy- ah - fuck!”. He stays there, one arm pressing Eggsy flat into the mattress, the other holding onto Eggsy’s waist, trying to catch his breath and come down from what sounds like one hell of an orgasm. 

Eggsy stays still, too. He wants to stretch, to rub himself off against the sheets, but instead he stays put, lets Harry come down. After a moment, Harry seems to catch his breath. He pulls out of Eggsy, slowly, without moving his hands. When he’s finally out, he slides his hands down to Eggsy’s legs, helping him stretch them out before turning the boy over. 

“Oh, my darling boy,” he says, sounding awed. Eggsy cracks his eyes open the littlest bit, feeling strung out. Harry’s standing over him, hair a mess, completely naked and covered in sweat. He’s standing there, looking like a predator about to pounce, and staring openly at Eggsy’s flushed cock. 

Eggsy feels a bit ridiculous, with his second hard on of the evening, his chest covered in flower petals, and his mouth all red and swollen from biting the sheets to keep from screaming. But Harry’s hungry gaze makes him feel hot. Not just attractive, but he can actually feel himself flushing with heat from Harry just looking at him. 

A gun calloused hand wraps itself around Eggsy, making him arch up into the feeling. He’s wound so tight, he knows it won’t take much at all for him to come like a freight train. In less than a dozen skilled strokes, he’s cumming, arching off the bed and gasping desperately for enough air to scream. 

Afterwards, when he finally comes back to himself, Harry’s gone. Eggsy can see a faint light from under the door to the en suite, so he knows Harry hasn’t gone far. But in that moment, Eggsy panics. He rolls over onto his stomach. His legs still hurt from being underneath him for so long, so he doesn’t curl up in a ball like he wants to. But he pulls his shoulders up around his ears, and he tucks his arms around his head, as if to protect himself from some invisible force. 

And he starts crying. He tries to stay quiet. He tries to stop. But the sobs wrack themselves out of his body, clawing at his throat and making the most undignified sounds. He needs to leave, before Harry comes back to find him like this. He starts to stand, even manages to get his knees to stop wobbling, but Harry opens the door from the bathroom before he can leave. He’s got a wet flannel in one hand, a glass of water in the other, and when his eyes find Eggsy’s he nearly drops both. 

In a flash, he’s there, by Eggsy’s side. The glass and flannel are both put on the nightstand, even though Eggsy knows it’s an antique, something you don’t put wet flannels on. Harry wraps his arms hesitantly around Eggsy’s shoulders, and despite wanting to leave, Eggsy can’t resist the warmth and comfort. He buries his face in Harry’s shoulder. Harry only holds him tighter, even as Eggsy lets out the most heart wrenching sobs. 

Harry maneuvers them back onto the bed, somehow managing to pull the duvet up so they can both curl up underneath. Eggsy just wraps himself around Harry and cries. At one point he starts babbling, and he’s not sure what about. He tries to stop himself, but Harry just cards a hand gently through his hair and tells him it’s okay. Tells him to talk about it, get it out of his system. 

Eggsy doesn’t know what he says, doesn’t see the heartbroken look on Harry’s face at some of the things he talks about. He keeps his face buried in Harry’s chest. They end up using the flannel to clean up Eggsy’s face before they clean up any bodily fluids, and Harry makes him drink two glasses of water instead of one. 

Afterwards, before Eggsy drifts into the most peaceful sleep Harry’s ever seen him manage, he whispers “I love you” once more. Harry immediately says it back, and his arms tighten around Eggsy, as if he’s afraid Eggsy will try to leave at the admission. 

It’s not perfect. Nothing ever is. There are fights and tears and midnight confessions of guilt. But it is the best thing to ever happen to either of them, and they’re quick to remind each other of that every day.


End file.
